


As Deep and Dark As the Well of Sorrows

by stravaganza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coma, Dreams, Fix-It, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, John in the well, Love Confessions, M/M, Partial Blindness, TFP fix-it, promise!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 06:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11640789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: "He reemerged with a splutter, his arms flailing around, his heart kicking in his chest as much as his legs kicked the water.Dark.It was all so dark."





	As Deep and Dark As the Well of Sorrows

Water.

There was water everywhere.

Rising.

Rising.

 _Rising_.

He couldn’t escape, he knew that.

He was doomed.

John closed his eyes, trying to relax, to let himself float to the surface rather than let his panic drag him down. His hands grasped stone walls, too rough and too smooth at the same time. He couldn’t grip them, couldn’t climb out.

Couldn’t anyways, he remembered, moving his legs to swim up and feeling the heavy chains wrapped around his feet, keeping him down, dragging him to the bottom of the abyss.

He heard a splash and he opened his eyes, looking around. Rope. A rope? Was it help?

John gasped as his head went under, his panic kicking in again, briefly, before he forced himself to calm down again. He reached for the rope and held onto it for dear life, trying to climb it, but the hard tug to his legs caused him to lose his grip and fall back.

He reemerged with a splutter, his arms flailing around, his heart kicking in his chest as much as his legs kicked the water.

Dark.

It was all so dark.

John forced himself to relax and grab the rope again.

Relax. That’s the only way to do it.

Relax. You have to survive this. You have a _daughter_.

Relax.

Breathe.

A wave lapped into his face, in his nose, just as he inhaled, and he coughed hard. God, but the well was so narrow. He remembered spreading his arms and feeling the rough bricks scraping against his fingers, his palms, his forearms, tighter and tighter.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t swim, he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t _see_.

Another wave, accompanied by a splash. Something had fallen in the water, something big, and suddenly John was terrified. Whatever it was, John knew it was a threat. A danger. And he couldn’t run. He was trapped.

 _Doomed_ , he thought, gripping the rope so hard he felt the rough grain of it dig into his skin, making it prickle, even though the ice cold water had long since made his hands go numb.

He felt the _thing_ swim up to him, he saw its dark shadow – blacker than the darkness surrounding him, he felt its claws as they gripped him–

“John!”

A concerned voice, a warm embrace, claws turning into hands and shadows into inky curls, moonlight pale skin lighting the well up as if he were a star…

_Sherlock._

“John!”

_Sherlock. I’m sorry._

“John, please, stay with me!”

_It’s too late. Sherlock, please._

“I’m holding you up, John, I’ve got you!”

_I’m an idiot. I’m sorry._

“John, no…”

He could see the sorrow in his eyes, clear as day, the pain and the regret and the helplessness.

“Please, John, I love you… I love you! I love you…”

John could hear Sherlock sobbing those words, his face crumpling like a child’s.

_Don’t cry… don’t cry. It’s my fault._

“Please, John, stay with me… I love you…”

The water was rising. There was no time, he had to say it back but he couldn’t. The water rose and rose, submerging him more and more, and it would do so until he was submerged, the chains dragging him down.

Sherlock’s grip tightened around him, his desperation increasing.

It was too late. It was all lost. There was no hope. No light. No sound.

The water engulfed him, biting cold and black as tar, drowning him, dragging him in its embrace.

It filled everything, relentlessly, and John knew this was it, it was over.

“John!”

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much…”

He says it even if it means inviting that cold darkness inside of him, and for a moment everything is still and silent.

And then… Suddenly, John is floating.

Was it the oxygen deprivation?

It was the last thing he wondered before he lost himself in the dark.

\---

 _Beep_.

Sound.

 _Beep_.

What was that sound?

 _Beep_.

Why was everything so dark?

John couldn’t see, and yet there was a light somewhere, shining behind his eyelids.

He frowned.

Why was there light?

 _Beep_.

That sound again. But that wasn’t all… there was more.

Then, John heard it.

“I love you… please, I love you…”

He felt his hand, engulfed into warmth, being squeezed gently. His fingers twitched, and they brushed against dry curls.

He opened his eyes, groggy and painful, the world still half-made of darkness. Tilting his head, John saw someone was sitting besides his bed, his elbows propped on the mattress as their hand held John’s, head bowed so John’s fingers grazed its crown.

 _Sherlock_.

John took a breath so deep, that he nearly choked on it, forgetting for a moment he wasn’t in the water anymore.

_Where am I?_

At the sound of John’s breathing pattern changing, Sherlock’s head shot up, his eyes as wide as they were red and puffy.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, and the amount of relief in his voice made the doctor frown.

“W-where…?”

“You’re in the hospital, John. You were shot. It’s… you’re fine, you’re okay now, you’re back,” Sherlock said, his voice breaking on the last word.

“Shot?” he asked, confused. No, that wasn’t possible. He wasn’t shot, he was in the well. At… Musgrave, was it? The Holmes’ estate, yes. Eurus…

“Eurus?” he asked, his voice croaking. He hadn’t noticed until then how thirsty he was.

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t know who that is, John. I… We can talk about this later, I need to call your doctor,” he said.

John hummed tiredly, closing his eyes. No one would blame him for falling asleep. He had nearly drowned after all.

When he woke up again, a couple of hours must have passed. The light in the room was different, more artificial, too bright for his eyes. Someone else was in the room, not Sherlock, and when he opened his eyes he found a short doctor looking over him, looking as serene as someone in her position could.

“How do you feel, John?” she asked, starting to examine him.

“Hurt,” was all John could mumble, looking around the hospital room slowly. “Sherlock…?”

“I sent him to get some food and coffee. He’s been sitting beside you for two days in a row, I thought he might need the nourishment. At least he seemed calmer after you woke up.”

John didn’t reply. Had it been two days since they came back from Sherrinford?

The doctor checked John’s vital signs, his reflexes, his senses. She fleshed a small torch in his eye, then tucked it behind her ear before doing the other one. John was confused, but he wanted nothing more than go back to sleep.

Sherlock chose that moment to enter the room again, and John felt his heart doing somersaults.

“Ah, Mr Holmes. A word?” the doctor asked, gesturing for the door with her pen as she finished taking notes on her clipboard.

Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, so he just nodded and stepped back.

John watched the doctor smile and follow the detective outside, and he closed his eyes once more.

“It seems he doesn’t realise…” The words drifted in before the door was closed fully, but John couldn’t follow the conversation.

God, he was so tired.

His heavy eyelids fell closed, but when he opened his eyes again Sherlock was once more sitting beside his bed.

“John?” he called, careful not to disturb him. But John smiled, and reached with a weak hand to grasp Sherlock’s, only to be met halfway.

“Sherlock…”

“How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty.”

Sherlock hastily reached for the bottle of fresh water he had bought with his lunch, poured some of it in a paper cup with a straw in it, and carefully helped John drink. John was a bit too eager though, and soon enough he was coughing some of it out, still remembering the feeling of the water surrounding him.

“What happened?” he asked when he felt like his throat wasn’t made of parchment anymore.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, but John squeezed his hand and repeated his question.

With a sigh, Sherlock begun explaining.

“That new therapist of yours… she wasn’t who you think. She wasn’t Faith Smith, and she wasn’t whomever she told you she was when you two were… texting.”

John nodded. “She was your sister.”

Sherlock paused, frowning. “I don’t have a sister.”

It was John’s turn to frown. “What? You do. Eurus. On Sherrinford, the nut-house prison on the island… She took us hostage, and then she brought us to the Holmes estate…”

Sherlock put his hand on John’s chest, trying to calm him down. John hadn’t even noticed his heartrate spiking, but Sherlock’s touch was of great comfort.

“John. She shot you. Do you remember being shot?” he asked, his voice getting chocked around the words.

“With a tranquilliser gun,” he said, nodding slowly. God, his head hurt.

Sherlock looked away.

“A regular gun. I was a moment too late. I found you bleeding out on the floor, I shot her… Her name was Moran… That’s not important right now. She’s dead now.”

“I don’t understand,” John said, too tired to follow.

Slowly, Sherlock guided John’s hand up to touch his face. The doctor startled at the feeling of bandages wrapped around his head, and he looked up at Sherlock, fearful.

“You lost your left eye… You nearly died. The doctors say it’s a miracle the bullet didn’t just pass you from part to part,” Sherlock said, his voice getting chocked again. “The… the angle suggests you tried to turn away, maybe run and duck. Bullet went in through the eye socket and left through the temple, it was… It was quite clean. I’m not sure if she wanted you to suffer, but I wish I could kill her again,” he said, and his voice was so full of rage and hatred for a moment, that John would have shrunk away in fear if he weren’t so well aware that Sherlock would never hurt him.

“What happened then?” he asked, squeezing Sherlock’s hand as reassuringly as he knew how to.

“You were in a coma for two days. Went in and out for a bit, you kept saying weird things… I supposed you were dreaming.”

“Mmmh. Makes sense. Was a bit more Bond than your usual style,” he said, cracking a smile, and it was worth the pang from his head just to see Sherlock’s teary laughter.

“Perhaps one day you’ll write a novel out of it,” he suggested.

“Oh, no, it’d be terrible now that I think about it. So many plot holes to fix…”

This time, it was Sherlock who squeezed his hand. “You’ll have all the time in the world to do so,” he said softly.

John hummed. “Where’s Rosie?” he asked, trusting Sherlock to not have left her alone.

“Molly, Lestrade and Harry are looking after her. Mycroft offered to get you a nanny, but they insisted.”

“Harry?” John asked, surprised.

“She’s been here a couple of times when she heard. Said fulfilling her aunt duty was the least she could do while you took a nap,” Sherlock smiled.

John chuckled. “Yeah, sounds like her.”

“She’s been worried.”

“So have you,” John pointed out.

Sherlock blushed, but shrugged. It wasn’t a denial, just a dismissal of whatever complaint John might have. _This is where I was supposed to be_ , Sherlock thought. John could see it.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve realised sooner…”

“No,” John said, closing his eye. Now he understood why the world seemed darker, tilted on its axis. “it was my fault. I knew you were seeing Ella, and that Mycroft could access her records, and I… I needed to talk about something, with someone, and I didn’t want it reaching you. I realise how stupid that was, even without all this mess,” he admitted, his throat getting dry again.

Sherlock helped him drink again, slowly. John took his time, now, also using this reprieve to find the right words.

“Sherlock,” he said, finally, simply. He looked into the detective’s eyes, and smiled. “I love you.”

He could see the sharp intake of breath Sherlock took, his body jumping with the strength of it, and it was a wonder he didn’t drop or crumple the paper cup.

“I’m not saying it because I heard you – even though that makes me feel better. God knows I don’t want to lose you for something this silly. But… I’m so, so tired. I was tired to run away from these feelings, and I’m too tired to deny it, now. And why would I? How could I live with you for as long as I have, be as crushed by your loss as I was, as blessed as I got when you returned, and not be utterly, uselessly, helplessly in love with you?”

John could see that Sherlock was blinking to try and keep his tears at bay, and all he could do was squeeze his hand again as his own eye filled with salty water.

“Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”

“Only if you can ever forgive me,” Sherlock said, his voice shaky and cracking with emotion.

John never wanted to see Sherlock this affected ever again, not because of sorrowful events. From them on, he only wanted his voice to break with happiness, and his eyes to sparkle with tears of joy.

“I have nothing to forgive you. I’m the one who messed everything up…” John started, but Sherlock cupped his face and looked in his eyes.

“No. We both did this. We’ve been too stubborn and scared for far too long, and denying our emotions only made us weaker. Never again,” Sherlock said, sniffling, and John smiled.

He cupped Sherlock’s face in turn and pulled him closer, kissing the moisture from his eyes.

“Never again,” he agreed, smiling widely.

Afterwards, John would talk to the doctor about his wounds and his recovery. He would talk to Molly, Greg, see his daughter and his sister, tell them about Sherlock and himself. He would admonish Mycroft for showing up with a congratulatory present before they could say anything, explaining giving the good news was part of what made these things special; he didn’t seem to understand, but agreed to hold the wedding gifts until the ceremony.

Together, they all helped John move back into Baker Street, Mrs Hudson melting with tears at the sight of him, coddling him like a mother and showing him the fully baby proofed flat.

They would help John get comfortable in his new, more scarred skin. They would get him used to his newfound normalcy, to raising a daughter together with Sherlock. They would get to be parents, unexpectedly, together.

And one day, when they finally ran out of adventures to tell and grew too tired to go looking for new ones, they moved into the quiet little house that belonged to Sherlock’s parents, cultivating new hobbies like beekeeping and gardening, and maintaining old ones like composing and memoirs writing, with their grown daughter coming to visit her amazing fathers.

And no matter how much time they felt like they had wasted in foolish denial, how many crazy and painful adventures they had lived through because of their fears, in the end they got to spend as much time – and then even more – together, as it should have always been.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could be bothered to write a complete S4 fix-it, but I doubt I'll ever go beyond a TFP fix. That's the main problem S4 has, anyways.  
> Thank you for reading this, I hope you enjoyed! Let me know with a kudos or a comment!


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